Trustworthy
by Toccata No. 9
Summary: Fate decrees that Loki Odinson is doomed to suffer for his crimes until the coming of Ragnarok. He does not suffer alone. Loki/Sigyn.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This is Marvel, and I'm a DC. XD Really, I don't own anything and Sigyn is Norse mythology.

Author's Note: Like a few others, I saw the _Thor_ movie recently. This is an unusual fic for me in that A. like the disclaimer says, I'm significantly more familiar with DC than Marvel (even there, more like Batman with bits and snatches of other heroes) and B. I'm more of a Greek mythology buff than Norse. That said, I know a few stories related to Loki, ran through the _Thor and Loki: Blood Brothers_ visual novel, consulted Wikipedia, and...saw the movie. :P Anyway. This is a fusion fic: movie!Loki, _Blood Brothers_/mythology plot bunny, and various other interpretations of mythology scattered throughout. Hopefully it'll make sense.

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Trustworthy

For some time (how does one measure time, crushed beneath the world's darkness surrounded by damp and dead earth where no mortal being dares tread?) he is alone. The serpent watches him without passion, a creature endlessly encircling, all encompassing as the Ouroboros he once created. In the right mind Loki might have found humor in this—an irony, a poetry, a self-inflicted prison. He lies bound not by one son but two. Jormungand the Midgard serpent, Narfi reduced to his basest entrails. God binding god. Son tormenting father.

Loki knows these things.

In some cold, lucid corner of himself he wonders if it is possible to wake up.

He does not weep, though his screams reverberate until his voice is hoarse and his limbs weary and the venom crashes drop by drop onto his face mixing blood with poison or the other way around. He stares into nothing and sucks it into his lungs and cannot form a single word. _Thor_, he thinks, _Odin, Balder, Heimdall. Thor._ Loki does not know what he secretly begs for. His enemies. His family. His crime. His death. But as was the case when bound by wood instead of flesh, by form rather than thought, he can offer nothing in exchange. This time, he does not need tears. Through the hollow slickness, the sickness stretching silent over his bones he would accept anything from anyone.

When she comes, they do not speak. Another shadow within shadows, smooth lines and creases where flesh pits or cloth folds or her body shifts in ways he barely recognizes. Once upon a time Loki decided Sigyn's hair had more in common with straw than gold, that her lips were too thin, her features too long in some places and too soft in others. He'd grown disinterested. Father and brother consumed his time, consumed him.

One of them whispers a name. There is a soft, plinking sound as the first drop of poison hits her bowl instead of him. Loki breathes, and it hurts, and he closes his eyes. Maybe he imagines her fingers tracing his hairline before consciousness leaks away. Maybe he imagines it.


	2. Chapter 2

Sigyn was resting beneath the arch of a willow during their first encounter. Goose bumps crept across her arms and shoulders with each exhale of spring. Perhaps it was stubbornness which kept her from reading in the sunlight. Perhaps it was habit, inattention to her surroundings, or a captivation with stories above all else. The courtyard that day held no heroes to attend, no gossiping servants, no passing nobles. Only a goddess.

Or so she thought.

The commotion erupting through Asgard did not concern Sigyn. Its approach and growing volume, on the other hand, successfully diverted her attention.

"Loki! Loki Odinson!"

Sigyn looked up. Now she did not fail to observe the Aesir's youngest prince, tucked behind a pillar, soundless as dusk. She had heard tales of Loki Liesmith, his ability to catch and cradle fire, his penchant for trouble. Many called him cowardly. Distasteful as a corpse left rotting on the table. His mouth formed a short, narrow line against the pallor of his face. Severity translated through every control executed over himself. Stiff collar, straight posture, perfectly still. Sigyn found herself surprised to detect amusement in the creases around his eyes.

Loki pressed a finger to his lips. She smiled faintly and pretended to resume her book.


	3. Chapter 3

"I have not left."

Sigyn's words are faint, a dying candle in the dark.

He opens his eyes. Poison falls into her grasp. She watches its progress and becomes a creature of mute attention. Thin-fingered, fragile, gray-gazed and unreadable. Sigyn has never been Sif, a viper in both strike and speech. Sif with her temper and hated black hair. Sif who is strong and passionate, vibrant and cruel. Sun bronzed lady of blades.

Sif who resents him. Sigyn who he may never fully know.

"Why?" croaks Loki, because he cannot answer the question himself.

She stares at him with all the warmth of a dead moth. "Do I owe you my tongue as well, son of Laufey?"

The exhale slithers from him, and he turns away. When his reply comes it is through a grin that makes his throat ache. "So I have become no more than jotun to you after all."

Her mouth twitches slightly, briefly. "I am here for my husband," says Sigyn, in even tone, "no matter the disgusting and pitiful creature he has become."

"Do you despise me?"

His wife smiles once more, but gives no answer.


End file.
